


The Adventure Of The Three Students (1895)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [145]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Depressed John, Destiel - Freeform, Discrimination, F/M, Framing Story, Gay Sex, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Oxford, Teasing, Theft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 09:07:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11377026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Sherlock gives his friend some 'stick' before they return to where they first met, the city of Oxford, where the great detective once more teaches the world of education a lesson.





	The Adventure Of The Three Students (1895)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MelodyofWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelodyofWings/gifts).



It was March of 'Ninety-Five, just over a year since Sherlock had been restored to me. I was of course overjoyed to have him back, and would often find myself staring across the room from my chair, just happy that the room contained my dear friend. And if he sometimes caught me staring and gestured for us to go to his room, well, friendship was all about making sacrifices, wasn't it? Even if I found it difficult to sit down afterwards. Or move. Or make complicated facial expressions.

Except today, when I really wished that he had been somewhere else. I had just returned from a trip to Oxford, and I felt completely and utterly depressed. Of course he had to be sat there reading, and although I just grunted a greeting and walked quickly towards my own room, he called after me.

“John?”

He sounded concerned, and I sighed in defeat. I turned on my heels and went slowly over to my chair, falling heavily into it. He quirked an eyebrow at me.

“Your trip went ill?” he asked.

“Very ill”, I said glumly. 

“I thought that you were looking forward to seeing your old friend?” he asked, clearly puzzled. “I know that you still exchange telegrams and of course cards at Christmas, but you have not seen him for some years now.”

“Yes.”

He stared at me in confusion.

“The ‘Stamford’ who asked to meet me in Oxford was not just my old friend James from Northumberland”, I said bitterly. “It was also his son, Joshua. His adult son, who is in his first year at Bonaventure College. He and his father met me there.”

At any other time Sherlock's confusion would probably have amused me – it was rare enough - but now he seemed genuinely perplexed by my reaction.

“You did _know_ that your friend had had a son?” he asked.

“Yes”, I said, knowing how foolish I sounded. “I just never did the mathematics. I last saw Stamford six years back, and Joshua was only thirteen years of age at the time, a weed of a boy. The weed has grown into a man.”

“Did you not get on well with Joshua?” he asked. I looked up at him mournfully.

“Stamford is almost my age”, I said dully, “yet he is married and has a son attending university. A six-foot-tall giant, who is a man. I just feel old! Old and useless!”

He looked shocked at that.

“John Watson!” he said sternly, “you are not old. You are forty-three years of age, in the prime of your life and barely two and a half years older than my good self. And as for useless – how would I manage without you?”

He had said that several times before, to me and others, that he would not be able to be the force he was without me, but I had always thought that he was just being kind to an ol... to a friend..

“Perhaps”, I said. 

“Did your friend, or your friend’s son, have any particular reason for renewing your acquaintance?” he asked. 

“Stamford – the boy - is concerned that a friend of his has been falsely accused of theft”, I said. “I promised him that I would ask if you could spare some time to look into it, though I warned him how busy you have been as of late.”

“True”, he said, “but I shall always make time for a friend of a friend. We could go to Oxford on Wednesday next, if you wish.”

Oxford. Where I had met Sherlock, and we had had our first case, the “Gloria Scott”. Twenty-one years ago. I winced at the memory.

“Would you rather I go alone?” he asked.

“Of course not!” I protested. “It has just…. been a long time.”

“Over two decades”, he said. “But look on the bright side.”

“What bright side?” I scowled.

“I read somewhere that the Great Western Railway may soon be offering discounts for elderly travellers!” he said brightly.

I scowled at him. That was just mean!

+~+~+

Sherlock said nothing more about my general depression all day, which was considerate in his way. That was until that evening when, needing a blue-eyed genius to hold, I made my way to his room and knocked at the door. He called for me to enter, but I was barely through the wood when he called for me to stop. I looked at him, puzzled (I may have drooled just a little but I had six foot of naked beauty stretched out in front of me!).

“I thought that you might need that”, he said, gesturing to the stand by the door.

I looked down, and scowled mightily. There was an old man's walking-stick there. I silently wished that we were married – so that I could divorce the snarky bastard!

“You are just asking for it!” I growled, shrugging off my dressing-gown. He quirked an eyebrow at me. 

“Are you sure you are up to it?” he teased. “I know how you _older_ folks find it harder to get things up of an evening.”

“You'll be the one finding it harder soon”, I bit back, positioning myself between his raised legs. “Or perhaps I should just make you wait for it?”

He smirked knowingly at me.

“You could not”, he smirked.

Damnation, he was right! I could no more withhold sex from Sherlock than I could stop breathing. I fingered him open more roughly than usual, and in moments was positioning myself at his entrance.

“Hurry up, old man”, he yawned in mock tiredness. “I cannot wait all night!”

With that I pushed right in, pushing his legs back harder than usual and aiming straight for his prostate. He grunted in satisfaction.

“Well, I suppose that that is not bad, all things considered”, he said, faking another yawn. “Is that it?”

I pulled back until only the head of my cock was inside of him, and grabbed the base of my cock, determined to make this one last. I may have been forty-three, but I could still pleasure my mate, quite well if the happy sighs he was emitting were anything to judge by. Then I pushed slowly back in, this time deliberately aiming to miss his prostate, whilst running my free hand over his muscular chest. There were one or two grey hairs amidst the fine black ones that lightly covered it, and I rejoiced silently that even the great man was showing signs of age.

He quickly proved me wrong by somehow managing to twist his body so that my cock struck his prostate, and he came violently, groaning in relief. I could feel my own orgasm pushing at my restraining hand, and partly because I did not want to die of too much sex with Sherlock (although that would definitely be the way to go when my time was finally up!), I let go and erupted inside him, letting out a guttural snarl as I claimed him.

“I love you”, he said quietly, as I wiped us both down. “And you are not too old, John. But if you want to prove that to me again – feel free!”

“Oh yes!” I said fervently, not at all panting like I had just had to run for a train. “Sure! Give me a minute, though.”

That sounded suspiciously like a suppressed snigger. I would have pouted, but I was not sure that I could spare the energy for all those facial muscles.

+~+~+

The following week Sherlock and I returned to Oxford, scene of my first ever meeting with the love of my life. I must admit that I felt lighter once we were in the city of dreaming spires, especially as young Stamford's college lay some distance from the troubled memories of Bargate. I also felt a little ashamed, as I had not thought how my dear friend would feel about being reminded of a case where his findings were, to all intents and purposes, thrown in his face. Sherlock however said nothing about the past, and we were soon in the well-manicured grounds of Bonaventure and looking for young Stamford.

Joshua Stamford was what some people (rather offensively, as I have said before) then called a half-caste, a phraseology which is now thankfully passing from common usage. My Northumberland friend had married a black lady from the United States, much against his father’s initial wishes, but seemingly the fragrant Lucia had rapidly won him over. She had also more than secured the family line, producing some six sons and two daughters for her husband, yet miraculously keeping her slim figure, from the last time I had seen her in ‘Eighty-Nine just after the birth of her youngest child, Elizabeth. Her son was strikingly handsome and clearly not white, and I wondered whether he would find that a hindrance in the life that lay ahead of him. Then again, the Henriksens had prospered well enough, the English as a whole caring little for race provided people fitted into their culture.

“Thank you for coming, Uncle John”, he smiled. 

I had stood godfather to the boy at his christening. I did not need reminding that I was an uncle. Sammy’s boys– little Johnson was already six, depressingly - were more than enough. Sherlock smirked knowingly at me.

“I have brought my detective friend, as promised”, I said, taking a seat. It had been a cold day, and the journey up had been tiring…..

Hell, I would be looking round for my pipe and slippers next!

“Please tell me about your friend’s problems”, Sherlock said, sitting down more elegantly than my near-collapse. His knee brushed against mine, and even that simple action made me blush like a schoolgirl.

“His name is Garth Fitzgerald IV, and he is from Bantry, in the county of Cork”, the young man said. “I mention that because the fellow accusing him is fervently anti-Irish, and I feel that that may have played a part in his coming under suspicion. Garth is a good man, a little to prone to parties and the social life, but we all have our weaknesses.”

Sherlock looked at him pointedly. The tall man blushed.

“I... uh, I am courting his sister, Hermione”, he admitted.

_How did he do that?_

“Thank you”, Sherlock said. “Go on.”

“Garth lives like we all do, with two other students in a self-contained set of rooms”, Stamford said. “His room-mates are two young lads over here from the United States, Edward Zeddmore and Harold Spengler. Both pleasant enough young men I have always thought – and yet one of them must be guilty, if Garth is innocent.”

“ _If?_ ” I questioned. “You doubt your friend?”

Stamford blushed. 

“The item stolen was a small marine compass”, he explained. “It dates from the reign of the great Elizabeth, and may even have been used on a ship in the defeat of the Spanish Armada. Sold to the right person, it would bring many hundreds of pounds, if not thousands. Garth is a good man, but he is here on a small scholarship, and has to work long hours in the city to make ends meet. They do say that every man has his price.”

“Why do you say that it must be one of these three men?” Sherlock asked.

“The compass was kept in the university’s own small museum, which is in a room next to where the three boys live”, Stamford said. “There is a connecting door, but it was always kept locked, and the museum is only unlocked if someone asks to see it. The only other way in is through the boys’ room – and when the college authorities checked the door, they found someone had both oiled and unlocked it.”

“Why would they oil it?” I asked.

“There is a heavy curtain on the other side of the door”, Stamford explained. “I suppose that if the door could be opened silently, someone could then listen to make sure that the room was empty before pulling back the curtain. A loud creak would have alerted anyone there.”

“But what about the main way in?” Sherlock asked. “Anyone with the keys to it could have entered at a time of their own choosing.”

“The main door has two keys”, Stamford said. “One is always with the Chancellor, but he is off sick at the moment, so the Vice-Chancellor is in charge. His name is Mr. Silas Barrowman, and he is a nasty piece of work, one of those oily fellows who perfumes his hair, for some reason. The other key is on the House Master’s set; Bonaventure is split into six houses, and a fellow called Mr. Ferdinand Amory is in charge of Garth’s house, Bluewater. Garth says that Amory doesn’t like the two Americans as he thinks they are too loud, but he himself has never had any problems with him.”

“How do you think someone could have oiled the connecting door?” Sherlock asked.

“That would have been easy”, Stamford said. “Bluewater had a fire alarm test last week, and everyone was kept waiting outside in the freezing cold for fifteen minutes. Someone could have slipped in and done it then. It is not the sort of thing that the boys would have checked.”

“Does the museum connect with the room of any other students?” Sherlock asked. Stamford shook his head.

“There is another door”, Stamford said, “but it only leads to a store room.”

“No joy there, then”, I muttered.

“Was not the compass in a locked case?” Sherlock asked.

“That was the other thing that was odd”, Stamford said. “Of course I did not tell the authorities what I am about to tell you, but I happen to know that Garth is an excellent lock-picker. Yet the lock was smashed quite crudely.”

“The authorities would doubtless claim that that was him hiding his tracks”, Sherlock said. “I think that it is time I met these three young men, preferably in their own room. Can that be arranged?”

“I am sure that they would welcome any help they can get”, Stamford said fervently.

+~+~+

A short time later, we did indeed meet the three young men. Fitzgerald was blond, anaemic-looking and seemed like he was at least ten years short of his proclaimed twenty-five, making me feel even older than I already did (apparently that was possible). Zeddmore was a solidly built chap with a stylized (pretentious) beard and an intelligent expression, whilst Spengler was thinner, dark-haired, quiet and clearly a little wary of us. All three were psychology majors, the college policy being to group students on similar courses where possible. I also noticed, rather incongruously, a child's sock-puppet on a table, with 'Mr. Fizzles' sewed in rainbow-coloured lettering along the base, although why some childhood possession of one of the young men was out on display, I did not ask.. 

I did not ask.

“They had some guests in to view the exhibits at a little after two that day”, Fitzgerald explained, “so the compass was there then. Harry and Ed were studying at the library, whilst I was in my room.”

Sherlock looked pointedly at the two Americans, who both blushed.

“The Carpenter’s Arms, sir”, Zeddmore, muttered, shame-faced (I was going to start renting my friend out if he kept doing that!).

“We got back just after four-thirty, and did actually go to the library for an hour”, Spengler said defensively. At another look he added, “or so. We didn’t get back to the room until half-past five, by which time all hell had broken loose.”

Sherlock turned to Fitzgerald.

“You were here all the time?” he asked.

“Except for when I got called down to see Forster, the beadle”, Fitzgerald said. “That would have been around three-thirty, I think. He had a badly-addressed letter, but we eventually worked out it was actually for Fitzhugh on the second floor.”

“How long were you gone for?” Sherlock asked. 

“Barely ten minutes, I think”, the young man said. “Is it important?”

Sherlock did not answer him, but looked across to the nearby wall where there was another solid-looking door. 

“Where does that lead?” he asked.

“Into Judson’s rooms, which he shares with Hall and Makepeace”, Spengler said. “They're psych majors like us but a year ahead, and are on a jaunt down in London this week.”

Sherlock smiled his slow smile. A good sign.

“I think that I am beginning to see _how_ this was done”, he said, “but not yet how it can be proven against the obvious culprit. Do all visitors to the house have to sign in?”

“Of course”, Fitzgerald said.

“Then our next port of call is the signing-in book”, Sherlock said. “Gentlemen, your help today has been invaluable. Mr. Fitzgerald, I hope to have some news for you shortly. Good day!”

He rose and walked swiftly from the room. I spared the sock-puppet a final, wondering glance and hurried after him. The young these days!

Sherlock coughed pointedly for some reason.

+~+~+

“This was a complex crime, doctor”, my friend said as we made our way down from the top floor. “At least three men were implicated in its workings, and it will be difficult to break through their ring of deceit. Let us start with our next port of call.”

I realized that he had stopped outside the beadle’s rooms.

“The beadle?” I said in a low voice. “But he is a loyal servant of the college!”

“Every crime needs someone who does exactly what he is told”, Sherlock said. “Think. Part of the crime involved luring Mr. Fitzgerald away from his room for long enough for the real perpetrator to escape. I would wager that if we went to Mr. Fitzhugh and asked him about that letter, he would either know nothing about it, or would have said that it was not his.”

“But how did the thieves do it?” I asked. “The museum is on the second floor.”

“We will come to that shortly”, Sherlock said. “In the meantime, let us see what we can learn from Mr. Forster.”

+~+~+

The beadle was shocked that Mr. Fitzgerald had come under suspicion but then, he said, the man was after all part-Irish. That sort of bigotry would have been bad enough without Sherlock’s own Hibernian parentage, and my fists itched in the irksome man’s presence. It was notable, however, that when my friend asked him how the Fitzhugh letter had arrived in his office, there was a definite pause before his answer, and he looked decidedly shifty. Fortunately for him, Sherlock did not push the matter. 

My friend did however ask to see the list of recent visitors to the house, and told me to copy down all the names from the past ten days, which took some time. After we had left, I asked him why, only for him to pull me into an alcove.

“Watch!” he whispered.

I stared at him, then noticed a figure leaving the building that we had just vacated. It was the beadle, his rotund figure bowling hurriedly across the college green to the Chancellor’s offices where he knocked only briefly before entering. Sherlock chuckled.

“Loyal, but I doubt that the estimable Vice-Chancellor will be pleased when he comes calling”, he said. “Let us go round the back and see what we can see.”

“Why did you want the names of all those people?” I asked.

“I only really wanted the ones who visited on the day of the crime”, Sherlock said. “But it will calm the criminals that I am looking so far back, as they will think that I may be on the wrong trail. One of the names from yesterday is involved in the deed for which Mr. Fitzgerald was blamed. I can telegraph them to Bacchus, and he can perhaps find a link between one of them and the Vice-Chancellor. Unless they used a false name, of course, but then at least my brother will have to do a lot of work to no end.”

I smiled at that. He led me round behind the main building, and I realized that we must be by the corner outside the three students' rooms. Each of the first- and second-floor rooms had their own balcony, albeit only a small one, but there were gargoyles in the forms of carved lions protruding out from between each of them. There was no way a man could have leapt over one of those unless he was part monkey.

Sherlock began looking around the flower beds as if he had lost something, but seemingly without success.

“Rope”, he said. “I was hoping to find some, but it seems that it has been removed. Never mind. How do you feel about a night in the city of dreaming spires?”

“You think that we should stay?” I asked.

“From my time in the beadle’s room, I noted that he has a half-day tomorrow when his deputy is in charge”, Sherlock said. “There are two further things I would like to examine, but I do not wish to alarm the criminals too much by doing so in the beadle’s presence. It would also be good if the Chancellor could be persuaded to rise from his sickbed to join us.”

I nodded, and we left for the town.

+~+~+

The Chancellor was a bandy-legged little fellow called, perhaps appropriately, Mr. Charles Wisdom. His doctor had recommended a further week of rest, but on hearing of Sherlock’s interest in the case he was naturally eager to see the whole matter cleared up. He accompanied us up to the room from where the theft had taken place, and although the climb clearly tired him, he looked keen to find out what we had to say. 

“There are three things I would like to examine”, Sherlock said. “If they are as I expect, then the case is solved, although proving it may be more difficult. First, I would like to examine the museum.”

“Of course”, the Chancellor said, producing a huge set of keys and fumbling until he found the correct one for the museum door. “Doubtless you will wish to see the case that the compass was taken from?”

No, sir”, Sherlock said as he followed the Chancellor into the room. “I wish to see the store cupboard.

The Chancellor looked more than a little surprised.

“The store cupboard?” he said dubiously.

“Indeed”, Sherlock said. “I presume that it is not locked?”

“Hardly”, the Chancellor said with a laugh. “We do not think thieves will go for mops, buckets and cleaning fluids when the room has expensive antiques in it!”

He unlocked the room which was dark, lit only by a small slatted window at the back. Sherlock looked around the room and smiled.

“What were you expecting to find?” the Chancellor asked.

“It was more a case of what I was expecting to not find”, Sherlock said. “All is as I suspected.”

“You are not thinking that a man could have gained access through that window, surely?” the Chancellor asked querulously. “It is far too small, and it opens out onto a sheer wall.”

“That was not my idea”, Sherlock said. “May we see Mr. Judson's room, please?”

“I hope that you are not going to suggest he had anything to do with the crime”, the Chancellor said as he followed us out of the museum, locking the door behind us. “Not only was he absent at the time of the theft, but his father is one of the college's major benefactors, and a most respectable personage.”

“My current theory would place Mr. Judson clear of any involvement”, Sherlock said. “Though in his absence, his rooms played a significant part in the crime.”

He would say no more until we entered a set of rooms almost identical to Mr. Fitzgerald's (except for that weird sock-puppet).

“The connecting doors were locked when we put in fire-escapes”, the Chancellor explained. “Before then, there was the danger that people could be trapped in a room with no way out. They are not used now.”

Sherlock pointed to the hinges of the door into Fitzgerald's room, and we both moved closer to look. They had clearly been oiled.

“Oiled from this side”, Sherlock pointed out. “You can see where a small drop has run down a little way. I did a quick check whilst we in the other room, and there was no application of oil there. Since Mr. Fitzgerald had no access to this room, he could not have done this.”

“An accomplice?” the Chancellor suggested.

“There were at least three men in this crime”, Sherlock said. “I have one more thing to look at, then I shall hopefully be able to explain matters to you. Though I should warn you now, it will not be good news.”

He walked over to the balcony door before the Chancellor could say anything, opened it and stepped out. The balcony itself was barely big enough for a single chair, and had iron railings around the edge. Sherlock looked at them, and smiled again. 

“All is as I thought”, he said. “Chancellor, we will adjourn to your offices, and discuss matters there.”

I looked at the balcony, but could not see anything out of the ordinary about it. Sighing, I followed my friend.

+~+~+

Outside the Chancellor's offices, he was met by his secretary.

“Mr. Barrowman has had to go into town unexpectedly, sir”, she said. “He said that he might spend the night at a friend's house there.”

I looked at Sherlock in alarm – this was one of his suspects, surely? - but the man seemed unperturbed. 

“Thank you, Miss Truman”, the Chancellor said. “Will you please ensure that we are not disturbed?”

The secretary looked at us curiously, and nodded, although I was sure that that I caught a simper directed at a certain someone before she left. The Chancellor ushered us into his study and bade us sit down.

“First”, Sherlock said, “I have both good and bad news for you, Chancellor. The good news is that I have some hopes of recovering your stolen compass.”

“That is good”, the man smiled.

“The bad news is that you have almost certainly been the victim of fraud over a period of some duration”, Sherlock said, “and that your college's financial position may be perilous in the extreme.”

“That cannot be so”, the Chancellor said roundly. “Mr. Barrowman has been acting as bursar during the past three months, and would have told me of any such problems.”

Sherlock looked at our host pointedly. It took him some time to get it, but when he did, he went pale.

“Silas?” he quavered. Sherlock nodded.

“Mr. Barrowman saw a chance to enrich himself, and to then disappear with your money”, he said gently. “I fear that you will find that the cupboard, so to speak, is bare.”

“No!”

“Not content with that, he saw a chance to increase his gains even further by adding your Elizabethan compass to his haul ”, Sherlock continued. “I do have some hopes there, however. The item is only truly valuable to someone who would appreciate it, and I think it almost certain that it was, as the saying goes, 'stolen to order'. A telegram that I received from my brother this morning tells me that someone whose scruples are what might charitably be called 'flexible' has recently acquired just such an item. God willing, we may recover it.”

“That is something”, the Chancellor said, still looking shaken. “But how? How was it done?”

Sherlock sat back.

“As I said, there were at least three people involved”, he said. “The Vice-Chancellor, an associate of his, and the beadle, Forster. The Vice-Chancellor's role was critical. Once you fell ill, he arranged for the three boys in the room next door but one to the museum to be sent on a week-long field trip to London. Their room was a pivotal part of the plan to throw suspicion on Mr. Fitzgerald and/or his room-mates. Mr. Barrowman also set a fire-alarm test, so he could oil and unlock the doors between Mr. Fitzgerald's and the adjoining rooms.”

“On the day of the theft, he conducted a small party around the museum. It was easy for him to add an extra member to the party, who I now know signed in under a false name. Had the police been more thorough and started investigating those who had come to the museum that day, I am sure that the associate would have been identified by the Vice-Chancellor as someone who had left the room with him. Of course, he did no such thing.”

“Where was he?” the Chancellor asked.

“Left behind in the room”, Sherlock said. “The Vice-Chancellor saw the other guests out – all innocent people, I should add – as they finished viewing, then followed at some distance, apparently talking to his associate. If asked, the beadle would have doubtless said that he had heard the Vice-Chancellor pass by his room, and that he had had someone of the correct description with him. What actually happened was that the associate was left in the cupboard until the Vice-Chancellor could be certain that Mr. Fitzgerald was in the next room; I presume that the beadle would have informed him that the American students were both absent. The signal was presumably that if the Vice-Chancellor did not return within a set time, then the theft could go ahead.”

“How do you know that this associate waited in the store cupboard?” the Chancellor asked. “I saw no signs of anyone having been there.”

“Precisely”, Sherlock said.

We both looked at him.

“The shelves were as dusty as one might have expected, but the _floor_ had been very recently swept”, he said. “Very thoroughly, too. Someone did not want to risk the danger of their presence in that cupboard being detected.”

“I see a flaw in what happened next, though”, the Chancellor said. “The museum has a fire door that the thief could have used.”

“True”, Sherlock said, “except that the stairs come down onto the path along the back of the college. I examined the area earlier, and noted that it is a public footpath, and that traffic along it is quite heavy. There is also a blind bend a little way back, around which someone might come with no notice. In addition, the area is overlooked by another large building off to the left. No, he walks though Mr. Fitzgerald's room into Mr. Judson's.”

“But Mr. Fitzgerald would have seen him!” I objected.

“You are forgetting the beadle”, Sherlock said. “He has been provided with a badly-addressed letter, and some little time after the Vice-Chancellor has left, the beadle summons Mr. Fitzgerald down to get it. Again unusual; why did he not take it up himself? Meanwhile our associate, now plus one valuable compass, is waiting to hear the student open his door to leave, after which he knows the coast is clear. After a few moments he smashes the glass, then passes through Mr. Fitzgerald's room into Mr. Judson's, locking the door behind him.”

“Why would he oil that door, then?” I wondered.

“Have you ever heard the sound of a door being opened for the first time in years?” Sherlock asked. “The noise might well have reached through to the students in the next room along, who I found had been questioned. That was the point of my question about the doors; they had been locked for a long time when this happened. And Mr. Barrowman knew that the oiling of Mr. Fitzgerald's door hinges from his side would throw suspicion onto him even more.”

“But how did the thief get out of Mr. Judson's room?” the Chancellor asked. “That is directly opposite the staircase.”

“He descended from the balcony”, Sherlock said. “If you had looked closely at the railings outside that room, which I did from below, you would have noticed that one of them was slightly bent and had some rope marks on it. The associate tied a rope around it and descended that way, then fled the college. Although it adjoins Mr. Fitzgerald's room, Mr. Judson's window is around the corner of the building and faces south, not east, and a most convenient large and frankly ugly rhododendron bush hides it from the footpath which carries straight on and away.”

“And now Silas has the money!” the Chancellor groaned.

Sherlock smiled.

“He will not get far”, he said soothingly. “Indeed, if we are lucky he will lead us straight to his associate. I have had two men trailing him since he came to work this morning.”

+~+~+

As so often, Sherlock was proven right. Mr. Silas Barrowman had gone not to Oxford but straight to the London house of the man he had employed in the robbery, a Mr. Robert Ventura, and both men were quickly arrested. Unfortunately much of the money that the Vice-Chancellor had stolen had been used to repay debts or could not be traced, although both men got sentences that would not let them breathe free air for many a year. It turned out that the Vice-Chancellor had coerced the beadle into helping him by threatening his employment, and because of that the man was allowed to retire rather than be sacked, which I suppose was fair enough. The compass now resides back at Bonaventure, and Sherlock's father kindly helped the college out with some financial backing to see them through the troubles caused by their thieving Vice-Chancellor. Of course young Stamford thanked us for helping out his friend.

I still felt old, though.

+~+~+

Next, in the first or a run of four animal-themed cases of which the last ended in near-disaster, we 'solve' the murder of Cardinal Tosca – and discover why some people should not believe everything that they read in the newspapers.


End file.
